


Grass Is Greener (Supposed To Be)

by CescaLR



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hair Swap AU, Minor Original Character(s), POV Ron Weasley, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, The Weasleys Fest 2020, Weasley Family-centric (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23263993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Ron Weasley has found that out of his family, he looks the most like his grandmother.(The Black sheep of the family.)
Relationships: Ginny Weasley & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Ron Weasley & Weasley Family
Comments: 24
Kudos: 138
Collections: The Weasleys Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> beta-ing creds to Vivi and Kay, thank u v much

Ron Weasley has found that out of his family, he looks the most like his grandmother.

Cedrella Weasley, or rather, as the twins put it, the ‘black sheep of the family’ was, of course, originally a Black.

Once, Ron heard Percy mutter about 'bad omens'. Cedrella had been a Slytherin, like her family before her and as much as she had been disowned for marrying a Weasley, said Weasley was still one of the least tolerant sorts of Weasley you could find.

(Suffice to say, they weren’t exactly fond of their grandparents.)

On Christmas, those times it's a big family get-together and there are more people in the burrow and around it than Ron or even Percy can count, Ron keeps hearing the same old jokes; "Did you pick up the wrong baby, Arthur? Ha!" "Careful, Molly, I think Arthur might've - yanno - had a little extra-marital fun! Oh, ho, don’t smack me Septima! I'm just kidding!" and so on and so forth.

Needless to say, Ron hides in the apple orchard. Sometimes Ginny hides with him because she gets tired of the first daughter in seven kids after seven generations of no girls (never mind that there are plenty of female Weasleys from the other branches of the family, and it’s not unusual for Prewitts to have girls) sort of chatter.

The last Christmas before Ron will go off to Hogwarts is another such occasion, and as per usual, Ron and Ginny find themselves playing catch between the boughs of the biggest apple trees. Ginny catches the apple they’re tossing about, then bites into it.

"Oil!" Ron says, loudly protesting. Ginny grins, shrugs, and plucks another apple, this one green, from the branch hanging down above her left side. "Not like there aren't more," She says, then tosses it to him.

After enough times of this same activity, Ron knows she likes the red ones just as much as Ginny knows he likes the green ones. And no, that's - that's not him trying to make a point, or anything, because what would  _ be _ the point in doing that? He’s already as not-red as a Weasley can get.

He supposes, at least, it's something he got to  _ first _ . Even if it's not something he actively accomplished. First Weasley by blood without red hair,  _ ever.  _

Ron takes a bite out of the apple, and Ginny grins, legs swinging and hitting the bark in a pattern of  _ thud-thud, thud-thud. _

She’s anxious, or perhaps at least a little nervous, because she’s twisting a strand of hair with her free hand, and her eyes are cast downwards, looking at the leaf litter instead of Ron's face.

Maybe the one thing he likes least about this whole thing - except how often the twins call him Cedrella or Gran or have mock heart attacks at seeing a Black in the burrow, let alone a Black's  _ ghost  _ \- is how little he looks like his siblings. It's the ice-blue eyes and black hair that differentiate him, even though he’s still got the freckles (not all over though - Ron’s arms are pale and pasty, which clashes horribly with the spattering of speckled brown over his nose and cheeks). He's tall, but not in the way Bill or Percy was tall at his age. He's tried looking in Charlie's face for something that proves they're related, but he’s never found anything. Ginny's nose is small and slightly upturned, while Ron's is long and straight. He's got the soft jaw of youth, but he’s not sure he'll have the same kind of still-soft jaw that his dad or his Uncle Billius or Percy have.

It's like... whatever governs your looks just  _ knew  _ he'd be a disappointment. It just knew - no matter what he does,  _ everyone else  _ in his family will have done it first; at least now they can pretend "Hey, he can’t be one of ours, can he?  _ Look  _ at him, he’s not even ginger!"

"Hey, Ron," Ginny says, quietly, "Could you..." She hesitates, a frown overtaking her face. "I know it sounds stupid and needy and stuff, but when you go to Hogwarts, can you promise you'll write?"

"Of course," Ron blinks at her. "Why wouldn’t I?"

"Because even Percy doesn't!" She explodes out, tossing the apple core she’s still holding. It hits the tree next to Ron with a loud  _ thunk _ . "Fred and George always say they will, but it's not like I could ever rely on them for anything anyway, but even Percy, who out of everyone I'd have thought would at least send a note every week, doesn't bother sending anything after the first one! Pretty much just "we got there safely when something interesting happens I'll tell you," but,  _ you know _ , how Percy would put it, and then... nothing!"

She scowls, but behind her anger, like always, there is hurt.

It's always kind of been Ron-And-Ginny, for as long as he can remember. And it's not like how Fred and George might as well be the same person, it's just... They're months apart in age; barely - not even, really - a year. Ron doesn't remember a time when she wasn’t alive. They might as well be twins, for all their differences, because they were pretty much raised like that was the case.

(And yeah, Ron  _ is aware of  _ the tight deadline, for that to be possible. For his own sanity, he doesn't think about it.)

But the facts are - Ron and Ginny are the odd ones out. Ron, for his hair that would sit better on a Black, and Ginny, for being the first girl.

"That's ‘cause they're prats, though," Ron points out, and Ginny giggles.

"If you meet Harry Potter, could you tell me?" She asks, her mood lighter and a grin firmly back on her face.

"Ginny, if I meet Harry Potter that's all I'll talk about for weeks," Ron grins back. "The colour of his hair, how his voice sounds," He teases. Ginny goes bright red and throws another apple at him, which hits him in the shoulder. "Hey!" He laughs. "Stop, stop, I get it!" She protests, but she’s laughing too, so it worked, and that's worth a bruised shoulder any day.

Still. Bruised shoulder. "You should go for chaser, in your second year." Ron grins. "With an arm like that, your house team would be sure to win!"

September arrives with the harvest season, but Ron’s not going to be helping Ginny and his mum out on the crops this year, which Ginny has been ranting about for the whole month beforehand, when she fully realised what Ron not being around meant, in terms other than her lonesomeness. Which is  _ silly,  _ because Ron knows for certain that Hogwarts’ fireplaces are on the floo network, so if she got  _ really  _ sad or something she could always call them, but - whatever. He’ll write. He promised he would.

Ron’s trunk is unceremoniously shoved into the back of Dad’s car, buried under the belongings of his other three Hogwarts-age siblings, and then they all pile on into the vehicle.

The twins jostle and joke, and Percy grits his teeth while he makes sure his prefect badge and his new robes are all in pristine condition, while Mum prattles on about how proud she is of Percy, which makes him puff up, which makes the twins scowl and jostle and joke but  _ meaner _ , which makes Percy snap which gets Mum angry at the twins, and Ron will be so very glad of being at Hogwarts very, very soon.

It takes an age to get from Ottery to London, so Ron sits back, grateful to be next to Percy and not the twins, takes out his comic book from his coat pocket, and settles in for a good few hours.

There is a boy, Ron notes, standing off to the side, between platforms nine and ten, with a trunk and an owl. He’s looking at them, uncertainly, a shock of messy red hair on his head and bright green eyes staring widely at the lot of them.

Ron supposes if you’ve never seen a big wizarding family before, it can be kind of shocking. Still, mum says it’s rude to stare.

“Oh,” Ron hears his mum mutter when she catches sight of the young boy. “ _ He looks just like her _ .”

She clears her throat, and then yells “Packed with muggles, of course! Which platform is it, dears? Ginny, do you remember?”

“Platform nine and three quarters!” Ginny helpfully yells back, her customary excitement enough to dim her confusion.

“Ah, yes – this way, this way – hurry up now, we’re going to be late!”

They crowd around the gate, and Ron keeps an eye on the red-haired boy (who looks, Ron thinks privately, like a very lost Weasley… if Weasleys had dark red hair, no freckles, and bright green eyes - they don’t. Ron knows this because he’s spent a lot of time cataloguing what Weasleys  _ do  _ look like) as his Mum cheerfully pesters Percy through the door first, then Fred – “I’m George, not Fred! Honestly, you call yourself our mother!” “I don’t know  _ what  _ he’s on, I’m definitely Forge, He’s obviously Gred.” “Oh –  _ you _ !” – then George, and then the boy works up the courage to wander over and hesitantly say;

“Um, excuse me, but is this… how to get to Hogwarts?”

Ginny makes a little  _ eep  _ and then hides behind their mum; up close, Ron can tell why. It’s… very obvious, despite the state of his hair, that this boy is who he is.

After all, his face and his mother’s face are on the cover of many books – and there’s no mistaking Lily Potter’s kid for anyone else, really. Same eyes, same hair, same complexion. There’s not much of James Potter in his son, except for maybe his nose and chin. And height. Lily Potter usually stood half-a-head (or more, depending on the shoes she wore) over her husband in most pictures. 

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.

Ron feels a bit too shocked to feel embarrassed about the fact his trousers are two inches too short or that there are clear seems in his jacket where his mum had to replace the fabric (muggle clothes are ultimately cheaper, given the conversion rate on the currency) because it’s not like Harry Potter is in any better a state – which is the shocking thing; because none of those books portrayed the Boy Who Lived as anywhere  _ close  _ to the same level of - income as Ron himself.

But here he is; scrawny, with taped glasses and cracked lenses, clothes that are easily four-sizes too big and ratty trainers that need a good  _ reparo,  _ at the very  _ least _ .

All his school things looked brand-new.

Ron gave a little wave as he was introduced, which kickstarted his embarrassment into gear – he was lucky, then, that his hair (too smooth, too dark, and his mum nagged him about getting it trimmed too often) hid the reddening of his ears.

“Hi,” He says, very lamely, when Harry Potter moves his gaze from trying to catch sight of Ginny after Mum introduced her (Ginny is still hiding behind Mum) over to Ron.

Harry gives a similarly awkward wave and grimace, and Ron decides he seems like a fairly normal bloke there and then.

… He’s still curious if he remembers how he got the scar though.

“Now, it’s best if you take it at a run,” Mum advises Harry Potter, who nods, shoulders straightening and countenance that of a man about to walk straight to war. It would be vaguely amusing if it wasn’t so  _ strange  _ because Ron has been raised on so much information about this boy that it is very hard, very hard indeed, to align the two versions of him with each other. The boy in the books was brave, and loud, and  _ different.  _ This boy is brave perhaps in a different way, and quiet, and very, ultimately,  _ normal. _

At least, as far as Ron can tell. And to be fair, they’d only said one word to each other – and it had been Ron who said the word.

After the boy disappeared through the barrier. Mum had him go next, by which point the boy was long gone – then, Mum and Ginny followed. 

Ron is herded along with them until they find the rest of the Weasley stragglers – Fred and George they catch before the two can reach Lee Jordan, their best friend with the worst taste in pets a person could have, and they grab Percy before he can hop onto the train and start off for the Prefect’s cabin.

“You’ll never guess who we just helped on the train!” Fred says, loudly, grinning. Ron had a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Harry Potter!”

Ginny’s face went very red again, as she hid in the folds of their Mum’s outer robe at the Twins’ announcement. “He’s way scrawnier than I’d have thought!” George says, cheerfully. “Right polite, too! We put him in the back of the train, the kid looked like if one strong wind blew through he’d up and collapse on us. Can’t have the saviour of the wizarding world die before he hits thirty!”

“Wonder if he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?” Fred wonders.

“Whether he does or not is none of your business,” Mum snaps at them. “He’s a child! You will  _ not  _ accost him with questions like that – would you like people hounding you for the details of how your parents died in front of you?”

She fussed over Percy’s robes the whole while, which meant she didn’t notice the look Fred and George shared at her words.

It boded nothing Ron feels good about.

“No mum,” “Guess not,” They reply.

“Oh, Ron, you’ve got dirt on your nose,” Mum says, and then Ron has to fight her off for a moment, before the train whistles in warning, and then there’s a rush to board the train. Ron is left, standing with his trunk in the middle of the hallway, very much alone for the very first time in his life, as Ginny grows smaller and smaller outside the window.

Ron tightens his grip on his trunk and makes his way down the corridor.

He finds as the twins said that Harry Potter, with his messy dark red hair and bright green eyes and clothes four sizes too big for his body, is sat alone, in a compartment near the back of the train.

“Hey,” Ron says.

“You’re –“ The boy racks his brain. “We’ve met, right? You’re Ron. The boy from the train station with the little sister.”

“That’s me,” Ron says. “Sorry, but, uh, everywhere else is full… Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Harry says, gesturing across from him. Ron sits down. They stare at each other for an awkward moment, before Ron realises he’s looking at where Harry’s scar peaks out from behind his fringe and Ron has to look away to hide his embarrassment.

Harry shifts in his seat. Ron stares out the window and wishes he knew how to talk to people other than Ginny better.

“So, um.” Harry tries, and then abruptly stops.

“Do you – are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurts out, then winces internally. He  _ feels  _ his ears redden and is doubly glad that his hair hides that once more. “I mean – I mean the twins said you were – Fred and George, they said they helped you board the train – and – and they’re known for messing with people, so I just…”

“I’m really Harry Potter,” Harry affirms, sounding like he can’t quite believe it himself.

“I didn’t know that, though,” Harry blurts out. “Um. Before. Harry  _ Evans.  _ I thought – I mean. That was the last name my Aunt Petunia had, and they never mentioned my dad or my mum, but – but Aunt Petunia said mum never married, or if she did that he was a waste of space or – or that she was a waste of space and had a kid at nineteen – um, I just,” He shakes his head. “I thought it was Harry Evans.” He looks vaguely mystified like he hadn’t meant to say all of that, but… like it had been a long time coming to say it, all the same.

“Oh.” Ron doesn’t think there’s any way anyone would know how to reply to that statement. 

It’s Harry’s turn, then, to look out the window.

“All my family have red hair,” Ron says, a wildly stupid thing to say. “I don’t look anything like my siblings. I keep hearing at Christmas parties that the rest of my family think I’m not actually a Weasley and that I was swapped as a baby or that my mum or my dad ‘had extra-marital fun’ whatever  _ that  _ means.”

“Oh.” Harry stops looking out the window.

“Do you really have – you know, the scar?” Ron asks, gesturing to his forehead. Harry looks very relieved, smiling awkwardly as he shoves his fringe out of the way.

Ron gapes, momentarily, before remembering that this is a human person he’s staring at and then immediately slams his mouth shut. Harry’s grinning openly now, so, maybe at least that’s something?

“How – um,” Harry halts, then tries again, “You’ve got Fred and George, right, and – uh, Ginny?” Ron nods, “Ginny. What’s it like, having three siblings?”

Ron grimaces.

“Six,” Ron says, and he can’t help the tone going vaguely gloomy.

“Oh.” Harry pauses. “That’s a lot.”

“Weasleys have big families,” Ron says. “Most of the time. It’s like... Blacks go crazy, and Malfoys join the wrong causes, and Prewetts have strong magic.” Ron shrugs. “You, um,” Ron hesitates. “Potters are good with potions. Your, uh, your grandad ran the  _ SleakEasy’s  _ hair potions trade. ‘Cause – the hair,” He gestured, “Black, messy hair. That’s a potter trait.”

Harry reached, self-consciously, up to his hair.

“Mine’s red,” He says. “Like my mum’s,” He adds - like that is new information to him. Not  _ new- _ new, but recently-gained, like something you learned last week that you still need to remind yourself of.

(Ron’s getting a sinking feeling in his gut again.)

The door slides open.

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” The kindly old woman asks, smiling at them. Ron winces and looks out the window. “’ve got sandwiches,” He mumbles.

“How much will this get me?” Harry asks, taking out a handful of –  _ galleons.  _ He looks vaguely confused as he holds out the money like he’s genuinely questioning how much it would get him, and like he’s also never held that much money in his hand in his  _ life. _

Ron is starting to have some  _ issues  _ with those books.

Ron stares at the shining gold coins in his small palms as the trolley lady explains the pricing to an increasingly confused Harry. Eventually, the woman sighs, takes pity on him, and gives them some of everything for the whole lot.

“I’m good at maths,” Harry mutters, “But it’s all  _ uneven,  _ I’d need a  _ notebook  _ to figure that out…”

Ron shrugs. He stares forlornly at his corned beef sandwiches, which he always gets, no matter how many times his mum is reminded he hates them, whether it be by himself or by Ginny or by the Twins’ teasing.

… it’s not very nice teasing, especially when the twins lord their sandwiches, which are ones they actually  _ like,  _ over his head.

(He’s going to be taller than  _ them  _ eventually, and then they’ll get to see how  _ they  _ like it.)

“What’s in that?” Harry asks, genuinely, as he takes a bite out of a mouth-watering pumpkin pasty.

“Corned beef,” Ron bemoans. “Mum always makes them, even though she  _ knows  _ I hate them…”

Harry wrinkles his nose, the frame of his glasses digging into the bridge. There’s no padding on the nose-bits. “Here,” He says, holding out another pumpkin pasty. “Trade you.”

Ron hesitates.

“Go on,” Harry cajoles. “Come on, I can’t eat all this myself.”

Ron tosses him the corned beef, which he catches; the pasty lands on Ron’s lap, startling Scabbers.

Ron catches the rat before he can fall onto the floor of the cabin, and he’s fast asleep again by the time Ron has deposited him on the seat.

“Oh, you have a rat,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Ron nods. “Fair that you didn’t notice him earlier, though; he’s called Scabbers, and he’s useless. All he does is eat and sleep. We’ve had him since Percy found him a decade ago – he’s mine now, ‘cause Percy’s Prefect and got an owl for it.”

“Oh,” Harry nods. “What’s a Prefect?”

“It’s like,” Ron frowns, “Like students with some of the teacher’s powers – you know, assign detention, be in the halls after-hours, take and add house-points.”

“Right, for the houses,” Harry nods. “Hagrid told me about those. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.”

Ron nods. “My whole family is in Gryffindor – ‘cept those who marry in, sometimes – so that’s probably where I’ll end up,” He says, mentally crossing his fingers. In another world, maybe he’d like to go somewhere else. Maybe he’d like to be the first Weasley-born child to not go to Gryffindor, maybe he’d like to stand out that way. But here, he doesn’t, because here that’d just… put him aside. Distance him even more from his family than the way he looks already has.

“I hope I go to Gryffindor,” Harry says, quietly. “Voldemort was in Slytherin, wasn’t he?”

Ron shudders, and can’t help but stare at him. “You said his name!” He says, very hushed. “I can’t – but I guess, you of all people shouldn’t –“

“See, I didn’t know that I shouldn’t!” Harry says, loudly, then winces and looks down. “I just… I found out I’m a wizard on my birthday,” he admits. “We were getting letters since the start of July, but I didn’t get to read it until my birthday – and Hagrid told me some stuff, but he didn’t tell me everything. And he said – he said you shouldn’t say his name, or at least that he was afraid to say it himself, but he never said  _ why  _ or anything like that! And I bet I’m way behind in other ways as well,” He grimaces, and stops talking abruptly like he doesn’t want to go any further.

“I don’t think so,” Ron says, and he’s not basing this off the books. “I mean, loads of people come from the muggle world – muggleborns exist and they do just fine! Most of them do even better than the lot of us raised here, so I can’t imagine you’ll do too badly.”

Harry relaxes, nodding. “Okay,” He says.

“So you didn’t know about magic until your birthday?” Ron asks. Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t,” Harry confirms. “What’s it like, then?” Ron wonders, “To live with muggles?”

“Oh, well, horrible,” Harry says, “But that’s probably only the Dursleys –“

At that point, the door slides open. A pudgy young boy about their age with tear tracks marking his cheeks starts stuttering the second his eyes lock onto Harry’s. “I – I – I lost my toad,” He says, miserably, “Have – Have you seen – seen him? ‘Cause – B – Because if I’ve lost him, gran – gran’ll – gran will k – not be happy,” His face crumbles, and Ron winces.

“No, sorry,” Harry says, very awkwardly, looking anywhere but at the boy’s crying face.

“Oh,” The boy hiccups. “Well, if you do,” He says, miserably, and then the compartment door slides shut again.

“Dunno why you’d bring a toad,” Ron says. “I mean, a rat’s pretty useless, but a toad is worse; harder to keep track of, and they’re more likely to jump out of a window,” Ron frowns.

Harry shrugs.

“So what were you saying?” Ron asks.

Harry shrugs again. “The Dursleys are who I live with,” He says. “My Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and my Cousin, Dudley.” Harry grimaces. “It’s not what most muggle homes are like.”

“Oh,” Ron says.

“What’s it like for you?” Harry asks. “Living with wizards and – six – siblings?”

Ron’s lips twist. “You know,” He says, and he feels himself shrinking slightly in his seat as he thinks about it, but he can’t stop himself. He hates this – hates knowing how pointless it is to try and stand out in a horde like the Weasley family. No matter what you do,  _ someone  _ will have done it first. For Merlin’s sake, there’s probably a Minister and a Dark Lord  _ somewhere  _ in their history; they’ve been around long enough, and there’s certainly enough of them. The point is – no matter what Ron does, there’s a Weasley that’s done it before and done it better, even – and especially – among his older brothers.

Ron’s the spare boy, before the girl his mum wanted. That he knows, or there’d have been a larger gap between them, he’s sure. He knows because she doesn’t remember his favourite food or his favourite colour when she remembers everyone else’s, He knows, because everyone else has gotten their own wand for their first year of Hogwarts but Ron is stuck with Charlie’s half-broken wand he replaced before going to Romania.

(And it hates him, Ron’s pretty sure, because it takes so much  _ effort  _ to do  _ anything  _ with it at all.)

“Charlie works with dragons in Romania, Bill is a curse breaker, he works with Gringotts, Percy’s a Prefect, the twins are smart, you know, they’re really popular, and…” Ron hesitates. “And then there’s me.”

And then there’s Ron; black hair, eyes the wrong shade of blue (which would be fine... if his hair was the right shade of red).

“I get Charlie’s old wand, Bill’s old robes, and Percy’s old rat,” Ron says, humourlessly. “You know because – because Percy deserved a reward for getting Prefect, right? So he got new robes and an owl but –”

“You didn’t get a new wand,” Harry says. “I haven’t ever had anything new, either.” Harry tries, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “I always get what Dudley used to wear when it doesn’t fit him anymore. And Uncle Vernon’s old socks.”

Dudley must be very big indeed if that doesn’t fit him anymore. How much older than Harry is he? Ron wonders.

(Also – Ron and his siblings don’t call Muriel and Billius ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ every single time they reference them by name, which is something he quietly notes in the back of his head to add to the sinking feeling in his gut about this whole… thing.)

Ron nods, and Harry smiles, pleased. “Well,” He says, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

Of course. The boy standing in the hallway is blonde and ferrety-looking, beady grey eyes looking at them both in turn, quickly dismissing Harry.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Oh, that’s really funny.

Ron holds back his laughter as the boy, who is as clearly a Malfoy as Ron is  _ not  _ clearly a Weasley, addresses them.

Harry is scowling at him. They’ve met before, Ron realises.

“I heard Harry Potter was on the train, in this compartment,” The boy says, sweeping his eyes across the both of them.

Ron has hair long enough that his mum keeps wanting to cut it (Bill keeps reminding her that they can have their hair however they want to, which keeps reminding her to pester him instead of Ron, which Ron is grateful for) – so much like Harry’s, Ron’s fringe hangs over his forehead.

“Is that true?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Ron says. “Who’s asking?” He adds. Harry’s too busy scowling to say anything; he is currently locked in a death-glare match with one of Malfoy’s cronies, a tall and thick-headed boy that could be either Crabbe or Goyle, for that’s certainly who Malfoy’s shadows are.

“Malfoy,” Malfoy draws himself up to his full height, which is not much taller and therefore not at all impressive to Ron, who would stand a head taller than the boy if he stood up – “Draco Malfoy.”

Ron can’t help it; he snorts.

“Really?” Harry says, sounding very bored and like he’s had this exact conversation before.

Malfoy casts a glance Harry’s way and scoffs. “No need to ask who  _ you  _ are,” He says, like a complete idiot.

“Should hope not, since we’ve met before,” Harry says. “Are you still convinced I’m a Weasley?”

“ _ Look at you,”  _ Malfoy says, waving a hand in Harry’s direction. “Red hair; hand me down,  _ muggle  _ clothes. Pro-Gryffindor. What else would you be?”

“Harry Potter,” Harry says, dryly. “Ron, question?”

“Yeah?” Ron looks at him for a second, before returning his attention to Malfoy’s bodyguards.

“Do I look like a Weasley?”

“From a distance, maybe,” Ron says. “But your hair’s too dark and you’ve no freckles, and no Weasleys I know of have green eyes unless you count muddy green-tinged hazel. Plus, I’ve never been forced to shake your hand at Christmas, so that’s another point against you being a cousin of mine.”

Harry grins at Malfoy. Very, very pointedly, he lifts his fringe.

Malfoy’s face tinges very pinkly at the cheeks. It’s a glorious sight to behold, and Ron will tell his dad about this later (not his mum, though; she can’t be bothered with the rivalry, mostly – she doesn’t  _ like  _ Malfoys, given their death-eater tendencies, but she doesn’t like her husband getting involved in petty fights in bookstores and apothecaries.)

“So, what did you want, then?” Harry asks, dropping his fringe.

“I wanted to see if it was true,” Malfoy tries, lifting and dropping one shoulder in mimicry of being at ease and in control. “And if it was…” He held out his hand to Harry, with a baleful glance at Ron. “I wanted to warn you. If you go around making friends with the wrong sort… well. I can help you there; you’d be better off, in the future, being by my side instead of a blood traitor’s, you understand.”

“No, actually, I don’t,” Harry says, very coolly. “And I can decide who’s ‘the wrong sort’ for myself, thanks.”

Harry pointedly does not take Malfoy’s hand, and there’s a light feeling somewhere in the region of Ron’s chest at that, because – not that he was  _ really  _ worried, or anything – but they haven’t even known each other for that long. And still.

“You can leave now,” Ron says, helpfully.

“I don’t think we will,” Malfoy says. “Clearly, Potter is going the way his parents did, hanging out with an oaf like Hagrid and a family like  _ yours.  _ And it looks like you’ve got some sweets you haven’t finished yet. Crabbe, Goyle,” He says, stepping back. Harry looks ready to fight, shoulders squared and glare stronger than that of Goyle’s, who’s twice his size in terms of height and breadth.

Maybe the books got one thing right.

Ron gears up to fight, too, even though Crabbe’s bigger than him by a fair bit – and Ron’s tall, so that’s saying something – but before anyone can do anything, as Crabbe reaches out to the food on Ron’s bench –

Crabbe yowls in pain, a grey blur hits the other seat, and the three boys are gone from their compartment.

“I can’t believe it,” Ron says, astonished. “Scabbers actually did something!”

Harry laughs, loud and carefree. He grins at Ron, who can’t help but grin back.

“What do you think?” Harry says. “I could pass for a Weasley?”

“Merlin, no,” Ron laughs.

( _ Maybe in temperament _ , he allows, inside his head.)

Sometime later, the compartment door opens again.

“A boy named Neville has lost his toad,” A girl says, very primly and without preamble. “Have you seen one?”

“No,” Harry says.

“We’ve seen the boy, not the toad,” Ron adds.

The girl, who has rather bushy hair, purses her lips in displeasure. “Well – “ She frowns, looking straight at Ron. “You’ve got dirt on your nose,” She says, and then looks at Harry. She pauses, and her eyes widen. “You’re Harry Potter!” She says,  _ very  _ loudly, then shoves the food off of Harry’s bench, onto the floor of his side of the compartment (rude), then sits down, staring very widely at the boy in question, who is leaning back awkwardly against the window. “I’m Hermione Granger. I’ve read all about you, you know, in  _ The Rise And Fall Of The Dark Arts –  _ “ And she goes on, and on, and  _ on,  _ and Ron shares a glance with Harry, relieved to see that he’s not getting a word of this either.

“And who are you?” She asks, looking at Ron.

“Ron Weasley,” He says, bewildered.

“ _ Scourgify  _ is a cleaning charm,” She says, imperiously. “And  _ reparo  _ should help with your glasses, Harry.” The girl, ‘Hermione’, says all of this like she’s imparting some heretofore unknown wisdom, which is, admittedly, pretty aggravating. Ron knows those spells. They’re common, household spells. And even if he  _ wasn’t  _ wizard-raised, Ron’s pretty sure he’d just be offended by her tone of voice, like she’s better than them because she knows more than they do.

Hermione looks out the window. “Oh, also, we should be arriving soon, so if I were you, I’d get ready.”

With that, she stands and leaves the compartment.

“Well.” Harry blinks. “... I haven’t memorised my textbooks.”

“Me neither,” Ron says, suddenly feeling better. Harry looks just as relieved.

Harry glances out the window - Ron follows his gaze, and sure enough, the landscape outside is much closer to that of what his brothers and parents have described Hogwarts to be like. “She’s right, I suppose,” Harry says, and Ron nods. The two of them change, then settle back down into their seats. They might as well finish off the food, as much as they can - though, while they work through it, Harry puts away much of the packaged stuff in his trunk. Feeling guilty, even though Harry nudges him to do the same, Ron also packs some of the food away. 

When there’s only one packet of Bertie-Bott’s every flavour beans left between them, there is a whistle heralding their arrival at Hogsmeade as the train comes to a halt. Outside it’s darker, an autumn evening in the Scottish Highlands, the station older-looking and less well-kempt than the one at King’s Cross. It’s small and open-air, but Ron figures that’s all it needs to be, really.

Ron stands as Harry does. The two of them go through the rigmarole of putting their trunks back on the shelves, and then they move to exit the train. The hallway is jam-packed with students, all ranging from the ages eleven-to-seventeen, and there’s a cacophony of voices, too many to make out individual conversations. It’s slow-going, like a queue always is, but eventually, Harry and Ron are outside, huddled among the other First-Years at the front of the group - and, really, it’s less ‘among’ because, of course, everyone who  _ knows  _ can tell who Harry is just by looking at him - the red hair of Lily Evans, the messy nature of James Potter, the shockingly green eyes of his mother’s, the smaller features he shares with his father’s face. There’s a small gap, a noticeable one, between them and the students who are uncomfortable standing next to  _ the  _ celebrity of the wizarding world; but Harry notices none of this. He beams up at the 12-foot-tall man who towers before them, lantern held aloft to light the way. 

“First years!” He greets, voice booming without effort. “Heya, Harry, how’re you doing?”

“Hagrid!” Harry greets, happily. Hagrid’s been at Hogwarts for a long time; was a student long before Ron’s own parents. He’s heard the rumours (of course he has) but his Dad always says Hagrid means well. Fred and George have always said he’s useful if you want to know things you aren’t supposed to, but that’s Fred and George for you. Charlie likes him, but that’s because they hold the same amount of affection for dragons - though Charlie told Ron once that Hagrid was a lot more careless about it than he thought was healthy. He’d do anything for a dragon, Charlie had said, except leave Hogwarts and go work in a dragon reserve. 

“This way, firs’ years!” Hagrid says, and they follow him down the path towards the lake. Ron’s heard all sorts about this lake, and the castle, but as they leave the shelter of the trees lining the path, Ron’s breath is taken away; no matter the skill of the person who describes it, Ron rather thinks nobody could capture Hogwarts’ beauty. 

There are many gasps among the crowd; Hagrid chortles and says something, but Ron isn’t paying attention. They move along, down to the small jetty, and Hagrid has them get into the little rowboats there - “No more’n four to a boat!” He yells, so Ron ends up in a boat with Harry, the boy from the train; one Neville Longbottom, and some other random girl, who says her name is Su Li. 

Once they’re all seated, the boats move on their own; Harry stares, openly, green eyes glinting in the starlight, a happy sort of surprise on his face, greedily drinking up the sight laid out before him. Su Li looks like she’s done this before, and Neville looks the way he looked on the train - nervously upset, stressed, about to pass out, and halfway to tears. 

Off in the distance, Ron can see a shape rise above the water, but it’s too dark to make much of anything out. 

“Percy says there’s a giant squid in this lake,” Ron says. Harry blinks at him, then grins. “Cool,” He says. Neville whimpers, and Su Li smiles, secretively, like she’s in on a joke Ron doesn’t think he’d told. 

Not too long after that, Hagrid booms out across the water; “Duck yer ‘eads, ev’ryone!”

Ron does as commanded, as do the rest of their boat, and he feels the prickle of plants lashing at his head. Once through, Ron spots Harry grimacing as he carefully removes leaves from where they’re stuck in his now  _ even more  _ messy hair. A stick has gotten tangled in Su Li’s dark locks, and Neville was smacked in the face by a vine but is otherwise unharmed. 

Ron gets out of the boat, plucking twigs from his hair as he goes. 

“They should really cut that,” Su complains, wandering away to stand with another girl. “Mandy, help!” She whisper-yells, and then Ron can’t hear the rest of their conversation. 

Hagrid spots a toad, which Neville tearfully goes to collect, and then they make their way from the boathouse up to the school proper. There’s a side-entrance, which they arrive at, and after Hagrid knocks, three times and very loudly, a woman opens the door. 

“The firs’ years, Pr’fesser McGonagall.” Hagrid says. 

“Thank you, Hagrid, I will take them from here.” 

Professor McGonagall is a middle-aged witch, with her hair severely scraped back into some form of bun hidden beneath her traditional witch’s hat. Her outer robe is emerald green, the inner garment a sort of tartan, tinged with enough red that she looks almost like a walking Christmas advertisement, but with more class. Her tightly pursed thin lips and narrow eyes certainly lower the amount of cheer her colour choices could otherwise provide; Ron, upon her serious and assessing gaze passing over him, fidgets and remembers the dirt supposedly stuck on the left side of his nose. They follow the Professor into the castle, entering a small chamber. Once they’ve all settled down, she begins to talk. 

“I am Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration Professor, Deputy Headmistress, and Head of Gryffindor House. I welcome you all to Hogwarts,” The woman greets them. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the great hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The sorting is a very important ceremony, because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts.” 

You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room. The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup; a  _ great  _ honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.”

The sorting ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.” 

Harry fidgets, pulling at the collar of his robe, which he’d pulled on over the poorly-fitting muggle clothes he’d already been wearing. Part of his oversized plaid shirt is peeking past the neckline. Ron wishes he knew if the dirt his mum and Hermione Granger had spotted was still on his nose. 

Professor McGonagall casts her severe gaze over each of them individually, before spinning on her heel and entering the entrance hall, which Ron manages to catch a glimpse of before the door shuts behind her. 

It is… very large. Even Bill’s explanation didn’t do it justice. The Burrow could fit in there, easily, perhaps even twice over.

Harry swallows, audibly, and Ron turns his attention to the green-eyed boy. 

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” Harry asks.

Ron shrugs, awkwardy. “The twins said we have to fight a troll,” He offers, “But they’re jokers, so I wouldn’t put stock in it, and anyway, Uncle Billius said there was nothing to worry about, just a little personality quiz you don’t have to actively answer.”

Whatever  _ that  _ meant. 

“Oh,” Harry nods, as if psyching himself up. “Okay.” He looks very uncomfortable, green eyes flicking around the chamber, but before Ron can say anything else, like how Percy would always scoff when the twins went on and on about various different painful tests he and Ginny would have to do when they were to be sorted, some very loud gasps emerge from among the rest of the students - probably muggle-raised ones, because when Ron spots the ghosts that caused the gasps (including Harry’s), he isn’t particularly startled by them. 

Though, that might be due to living under the ghoul in the attic, Ron supposes. 

“What the-” Someone nearby mumbles.

Still, there  _ are  _ a lot more ghosts than Ron is used to, and certainly they look less disgusting than the attic ghoul does. They’re pearly-white and slightly transparent, able to glide across the room, through many of the students, while they talk. They also seem to be arguing, from what Ron can tell. What looked like a fat little monk was finishing a sentence he’d started before phasing through the wall and scaring the toad boy, Neville, half to death: "- Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance--"

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost -- I say, what are you all doing here?"

Ron glances around; some students look shocked, some confused, some downright terrified, and some yet look bored; rolling their eyes and scoffing at the act the ghosts are putting on.

And, really. They’re  _ ghosts.  _ And not just any ghosts, but  _ Hogwarts  _ ghosts. If they’ve been here for more than eight months, which they surely have been, then they should know by now why there are a bunch of eleven-year-olds standing around in a chamber off the entrance hall. Ron’s not  _ that  _ easily fooled. 

The ghosts prattle on about their houses, as the students stand in bored-or-shocked silence. 

“Ghosts,” Ron whispers to Harry, leaning down slightly. “They’re right mad; been here for hundreds of years, probably. Don’t know who they think they’re fooling - ‘cept the muggleborns and muggle-raised, i s’pose.”

Harry relaxes, just a smidge, but it’s something.

Professor McGonagall returns, just as the Fat Friar finishes his part of the bit and the next ghost has opened her mouth to start rambling on. The Professor ushers them out of the chamber, and towards the great hall. She directs them to crowd around in somewhat of a line, people huddling in pairs or threes or more, or standing awkwardly alone in the midst of a group of new-found-friends. 

Harry stands close to Ron. Neville is a little ways off, and Hermione Granger is standing with him, perhaps by default. Malfoy and his cronies are, thankfully, near the back of the line. Su Li and her friend, Mandy Broklehurst, are standing just in front of Harry and Ron, and Su Li sends Ron a smile when they catch each other’s eyes, on accident. She’s still trying to remove twigs from her hair.

“Follow me,” McGonagall commands, when she thinks they’re sufficiently lined-up and presentable (Su Li has just finished removing the last twig from her dark hair, and Ron’s pretty sure the dirt is gone from his nose, or at least, Harry says it is, and Ron can’t think of a reason for him to lie about that), and so they do; the doors to the Great Hall open before them, and suddenly there are over a thousand stranger’s faces staring blankly, expectantly, at the lot of them. 

“Oh boy,” Someone behind him in the huddle mutters, then gets shushed by the person next to them. 

The Great Hall is lit by thousands upon thousands of candles that float in midair over four long tables, where the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins are all sitting, in that order, left to right. On the tables, amongst the sea of black and green and red and blue and yellow is the most silver and gold Ron had ever seen in his life; goblets and plates and platters, knives and forks, all worth probably more than the farm he lives on once added up together. At the top of the hall stands another long table, where the teachers are seated. 

Professor McGonagall leads them all down the middle of the hall, between the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs, towards the teacher’s table; Ron can’t help but stare at the man seated in the centre. 

He’s old, with white-silver hair, his beard reaching down past his stomach. His clothes are garish and yet traditional, bright yellow with purple pointed hats and brooms and wands dotting the material covering an inner robe of deep red with yellow adornments. Said yellow sparkles. 

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Ron’s never met the man before, why would he have? But he’s a legend. Legendary; he’d defeated Grindlewald, he’d lead the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and Ron’s parents have had nothing bad to say about him for the past eleven years. Even the twins talk about him with clear respect, and that’s the  _ twins _ . 

In comparison to the twinkling gaze of their world’s most famous and powerful man, the hundreds of faces staring at them seem suddenly much less daunting to suffer under, including those of the silvery-translucent ghosts sitting among the students. Still, it wasn’t comfortable to be so watched, and Ron turned his attention upwards when he noticed Harry craning his neck to peer at the ceiling, gazing up at the enchanted window out to the deep navy night-sky, which is dotted with stars, the waxing moon high overhead tonight. 

“It’s bewitched to look like the night sky,” Hermione Granger whispers, too loudly. “I read about it in  _ Hogwarts, A History.” _

She gets shushed, but doesn’t seem outwardly bothered by it, or the many eyes her words draw from the crowd of older students surrounding them. 

Professor McGonagall walks forward from where she’d disappeared, now with an old, three-legged, rickety stool and an even older, patchy, worn hat that looks to be fraying at the rim. The Professor stands between them and the student’s tables. She places the stool down, and the hat upon it, then stands back.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the hat seems to sit up, for lack of a better term (given it’s a hat and can’t sit, and all), then begins to  _ sing; _

_ "Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, _

_ But don't judge on what you see, _

_ I'll eat myself if you can find _

_ A smarter hat than me. _

_ You can keep your bowlers black, _

_ Your top hats sleek and tall, _

_ For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat _

_ And I can cap them all. _

_ There's nothing hidden in your head _

_ The Sorting Hat can't see, _

_ So try me on and I will tell you _

_ Where you ought to be. _

_ You might belong in Gryffindor, _

_ Where dwell the brave at heart, _

_ Their daring, nerve, and chivalry _

_ Set Gryffindors apart; _

_ You might belong in Hufflepuff, _

_ Where they are just and loyal, _

_ Those patient Hufflepuffs are true _

_ And unafraid of toil; _

_ Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you've a ready mind, _

_ Where those of wit and learning, _

_ Will always find their kind; _

_ Or perhaps in Slytherin _

_ You'll make your real friends, _

_ Those cunning folk use any means _

_ To achieve their ends. _

_ So put me on! Don't be afraid! _

_ And don't get in a flap! _

_ You're in safe hands (though I have none) _

_ For I'm a Thinking Cap!" _

There’s applause after, which Ron dutifully follows in. Harry, at least, looks as taken aback as Ron feels. Ron is, at this moment, reminded of his Dad’s most repeated advice;  _ Don’t trust a magical object that thinks for itself, if you can’t see where it keeps it’s brain.  _

Ron swallows, uncomfortable. He tunes most of the sorting process out, trying not to rile himself up too badly with thoughts about  _ what would happen if I went into the wrong place?  _ And waits his turn. Alas, Hermione Granger goes into Gryffindor (as does Neville, which is fine, if a little unexpected, but everyone has hidden depths, he figures) and before Ron knows it, Harry is being called forth to sit on the stool and be sorted.

Ron, quietly, surreptitiously, crosses his fingers in his pocket. And the fingers of his other hand too, in the other pocket just - just to be safe. 

It takes a while, a lot of mumbling, and Ron is certain he can hear Harry muttering  _ ‘Not Slytherin, not Slytherin’,  _ but, eventually, the hat yells out “Better be… Gryffindor!” and to a round of thunderous applause, Harry is sent off to sit among the reds and golds of the lion’s table. 

W is one of the last letters in the alphabet; consequently, Ron has to wait until it’s only him and a dark-skinned boy with a permanent sneer etched on his face to get his own turn on the stool. Ron walks forward on forcibly steady legs, because it would be incredibly embarrassing to pull the same stunt Neville did, and only tenses up when the hat is placed so low on his head that it covers his eyes. 

_ “And what do we have here?”  _ The hat says.  _ “Another Weasley…” _

Ron bristles, mentally, but squashes that down as far as he can. It’s not enough, though, because the hat laughs, the sound reverberating around Ron’s skull.

Ron doesn’t like this at all.

_ “A quick mind, but no real passion for knowledge… a wish to be the best of your family, to stand out among your peers… a strength of character I must say I don’t see often in those to be sorted - eleven-year-olds aren’t usually… Hmmm… a certain insecurity… loyalty, though, and spades of it… bravery too… yes it could be… but also…” _

Ron takes Harry’s own methodology, and mumbles, hopefully very quietly, 

_ “Not slytherin.” _

The hat chuckles, softer than the laugh, but equally strange in Ron’s head.  _ “Yes, definitely loyalty. You are not much of a Ravenclaw - no passion for knowledge, though the openness and the intelligence to match her wishes are there if I thought it would be best - You are more in line with Slytherin, by your ambition and your loyalty and your wit, or Gryffindor, by your bravery and your views on morality, or Hufflepuff, by your undying loyalty - though your work ethic is somewhat lacking. Parts of the houses are in everyone, after all; my job is just to choose which best suits you.” _

The hat hums, considering.  _ “I suppose there was never really a choice. You are who you are after all, and you are a Weasley, no matter if the hair doesn’t match. Never worry about that.” _

“Better be… Gryffindor!” The hat yells out, and Ron can feel nothing but relief. 

(Bitter-tinged relief… but still relief.)

Later on that night, after the feast, and just as Ron feels himself slipping into unconsciousness, even though he hadn’t felt all that tired before while getting ready for bed, he hears Harry mumble something - but he’s asleep before Ron can ask him what he’d said, Harry’s four-poster’s curtains still open, having forgotten to close them. 

Ron sleeps easy that night, for a few hours. The sound of tossing and turning wakes him. He’s not the only one; Neville is sat in the window, holding his toad protectively in his grip, and reading a letter laid out on the floor in front of him. Ron leaves him to it, and looks over at the sound that woke him.

Harry looks feverish, asleep, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s mumbling, - no, almost… hissing in his sleep. A nightmare, Ron guesses. There’s not much he can do about it, and it doesn’t take long for Harry to calm down - so once it’s quiet again, and Neville’s gotten back into bed and has closed his own bed’s curtains, Ron closes the gap in his he’d forgotten to, and goes back to sleep. 

Their lessons are pretty much what Ron had been expecting, from what Percy has told them and what he’s gleaned in terms of truth from Fred and George’s overzealous retellings of real events, and from Bill’s genuinely good advice and Charlie’s more suspect offerings. 

Professor McGonagall is as stern as she appears to be from the outside, but fair too, and perhaps a little more lenient on her Gryffindors than everyone else, but Ron knows from Fred and George that she’s not the type to go easy on troublemakers. Flitwick is strangely starstruck by Harry’s name, given he’s an adult, and he topples off his stack of books, which wasn’t the best first impression; but he’s a decent enough teacher, when it comes down to it. Sprout is as much a herbology fanatic as her name would suggest, and she’s generous with house points, which is nice. And their astronomy professor is a bit kooky, but she’s alright. Forgets she sets them homework more often than not, which is what Ron likes the most about her, and she doesn’t really take points off people that often, either, which is the second best thing about her. 

Snape, though. He looks just like how Fred and George described, which is a bit daunting, because that might mean they weren’t exaggerating about how bad he is, too; they’re known to do that, about people who interfere with their pranking. But Snape is cold the second Ron sees him sweep through the classroom door, like he emanates it, and Ron can feel the tension in the air rise by a whole magnitude just from his sheer presence - and it was already bad enough, with Malfoy and his cronies in the other aisle, and Hermione Granger whispering information to herself in the row behind them. 

Snape takes the roll call as soon as he’s crossed the room and stands in front of them, blackboard to his left. He smoothly runs through everyone as fast as possible, but he halts on Harry’s name. Ron watches as the Professor’s gaze latches first on Harry’s hair; messy and dark red, and then his eyes; bright green and hidden behind round, broken spectacles, and then on his face as a whole; the amalgamation of Lily’s features and James’ distinct Potter heritage. Snape’s face is carefully blank, and then, carefully, a sneer. 

“Our new… celebrity,” He says, a mocking sort of intent. The coldness he emanates grows stronger; Ron feels a shiver crawl down his spine, anticipatory fear, and he’s not even the one Snape’s looking at with those unblinking, dark, beetle-like eyes and that sallow, harsh, sneering face. 

Snape finishes calling out their names. He does pause, very briefly, over Ron’s, with a raised eyebrow and a disbelieving tone that causes snickers from the Slytherin’s to Ron’s right, much as his mockery had done earlier, when he’d paused on Harry’s name. 

Snape starts speaking, after a moment. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” 

As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach. "

Right. Snape is officially Ron’s most hated teacher, ever, and the lesson’s not even started yet. Ron looks to Harry, who seems to be just as unimpressed as he is, eyebrows raised in the same motion - Hermione Granger, on the other hand, looks very determined, almost falling off her stool as she leans forward, already taking out her quill and unrolling her parchment in her eagerness to prove herself. 

Ron wouldn’t wish Slytherin on her, that’d be cruel - but he’s really confused as to why she isn’t a Ravenclaw. 

"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Snape demands. Ron glances around the classroom, but Hermione Granger is the only one to volunteer, arm raised high into the air, shoes pointed and only just balancing her on the bar at the bottom of her stool. 

Moments pass; Hermone gets more desperate, but Snape doesn’t call on her. Maybe he wants someone to just say the answer? But that doesn’t fit, really, because Snape seems like the sort of person to take fifty points for speaking out of turn. 

“No-one?” He sneers. “Potter,” He snaps, “Perhaps the  _ celebrity  _ will have an answer for us?”

Harry swallows, but he straightens his shoulders. “I don’t know, sir,” He admits, to Malfoy’s amusement. Ron glares at the blond prat, who doesn’t notice. 

Hermione’s hand, if it were possible, stretches even higher into the air. She’s bracing herself on her desk, now, with the other. 

“Tut, tut,” Snape says, dripping with vitriol. “It appears the Potter’s  _ supposed  _ skill with potions has skipped yet  _ another  _ generation.” His eyes flick around the room.

Ron can’t believe he just said  _ that.  _ Harry’s hand tightens on his robe, hidden under the desk, jaw clenching momentarily - and then he blanks, shoulders straightening again, back tensing further, but expression indecipherable and plain, eyes staring straight forward. 

“Perhaps a much easier question? Where would you look if I asked you to find a bezoar, Potter?”

Harry bristles, slightly, but reigns in whatever he’s thinking. “I don’t know, sir,” He repeats, tone barren. He doesn’t acknowledge Snape bringing up his family. 

This is ridiculous. Ron glares at Snape, as hard as he can. As much as Hermione can be kind of annoying, she clearly knows the answer, so why isn’t he asking her? Putting Harry on the spot like this just isn’t  _ fair. Especially  _ when he brings Harry’s family into it. 

“Didn’t bother to read your textbooks before coming here, eh?” Snape’s sneer deepens - but Ron notes, suddenly, that his eyes are focused very clearly above Harry’s head. He’s not looking at the boy at all. Probably barely listening to what he’s saying, if he’s even bothering to pay any attention to the boy he’s attempting to humiliate. 

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

“ _ I don’t know,  _ sir,” Harry repeats, again, this time aggravation clearly seeping through his carefully blank tone - though his expression is still calm, his eyes are hard,  _ sharp  _ emeralds. “Hermione might, though, so why don’t you ask her?”

You could cut the tension with a diffindo, Ron thinks, and imagines doing just that so he doesn’t say anything stupid when Snape responds. 

"For your information, Potter, and to save this class from your stupidity, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?" He glances, briefly, at Hermione. “ _ And sit down,”  _ He snaps, very harshly, though she’s already complied, being one of the first people to rush in writing down what he’d just said, before they forgot it. 

Ron doesn’t bother, just to be contrarian. 

“And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

Ron grinds his teeth together, as quietly as he can, then lightly taps Harry on the arm, hidden below the desk, as he sends him a warning look before whispering, because Harry looks far too agitated for comfort, and like he was about to do something stupid;  _ “Don’t say anything. I’ve heard Snape can get plenty nasty when pushed.” _

The lesson goes horribly from there on out; Malfoy and his cronies are loudly-whispering insults in their direction, miming out embarrassing situations, and Snape ignores that the whole while. Neville then messes up with the potion, and nearly gets them all sent to the hospital, and Snape deals with the situation in exactly the wrong way, making everything worse and Neville start crying. Seamus has to hobble off with Neville to the infirmary, and though Snape sends a scourgify at the floor and the table, they’re left to clean up the mess, because Snape blames Harry for it. 

"You -- Potter -- why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor. "

_ Which _ , Ron thinks angrily,  _ makes no sense at all, Merlin’s beard.  _ Still, he kicks Harry in the shin when he opens his mouth, a silent reminder of what he’d said earlier. Harry glowers, the angriest Ron’s seen him, but stays silent, mouth a thin line and green eyes bright with forcibly contained indignant fury. 

Snape takes one look at him, as if by accident, and then, after a beat, something like an internal war playing out behind his cold, calculatedly calm demeanour, dismisses the class. Harshly, and abruptly, and ten minutes before he should have.

Harry storms down the corridor, away from the classroom, and it’s only once they’re out of the dungeons and there is no more green-and-silver in sight that Harry deflates, anger turning into agitated worry. 

“Come on,” Ron says, “Cheer up; it’s not so bad. Fred and George lost fifty points in their first week one year, and everyone loves them. Even  _ Percy  _ has had points taken off him by Snape, he just hates everyone,” he tries. 

Harry shrugs, a half-hearted lift and drop of one shoulder. “I felt like it was more personal than that,” Harry admits, and Ron can’t help but agree. Something about the way Snape looked - or rather, avoided looking - at Harry, and something about the vitriol in his voice that sounded different from the vitriol he’d used in the monologue, and there was something about the way he singled Harry out, and bringing up Harry’s family? That was personal. There was something more than Snape just being a grouchy, permanently-moody 30-something wizard in a job he appears to hate; Harry was, in some way, an offence directly to Snape. And Ron knows the history, alright, he was born just before what made Harry a celebrity in the first place, and he grew up on the stories, on the news they’d overhear mum and dad talking about in the kitchen.

Dumbledore, in his infinite wisdom, kindness, and benevolence, gave Snape a second chance. Apparently he was a spy, apparently he was acquitted, apparently, apparently, apparently. 

_ Apparently.  _

But the thing is, Ron still knows he was a Death Eater, that he was on the Other Side, that he was Evil, that he did Bad Things, that he wasn’t a good person, because Ron’s dad talks about it a lot; about how too many people got away with being on the wrong side, because of money or power or connections, and how, sometimes, even someone like Albus Dumbledore can be wrong about something. Like one man’s innocence versus another. 

“He’s not a good man,” Ron says, slowly, and Harry snorts in disbelief, or rather, in ‘yeah, like water is wet?’ Ron tries again, “I mean - he was… you know there was a war, right?”

Harry nods, slowly. “Yeah,” He says. “Like there was a couple in the last century.”

Ron nods. “Yeah,” He says. “We were involved in those, too. But this one came after that, and, you know. The one with  _ You-Know-Who,”  _ He hesitates.

Harry nods, slowly. 

“Snape was a spy, supposedly,” Ron says. “Dumbledore got him let off, ‘cause he’s chief warlock - the highest position in the wizengamot - and he’s  _ Dumbledore,  _ you know?” 

Harry frowns slightly. “I guess,” He says. 

“He’s like… the Merlin of our time,” Ron says. “Headmaster of Hogwarts, and all the other titles. He’s  _ the  _ wizard. Everyone knows who he is. So, when he vouched for Snape -”

“Snape got let off,” Harry nods. “So Snape was…?”

“A Death Eater,” Ron says, quietly, because even now people don’t like you saying this sort of thing out loud, in public. Especially since Malfoy Sr. and his ilk got let off with no strings attached. “One of You-Know-Who’s… uh, supporters, minions, I guess.”

Harry’s brows furrow more, a flash of unconcealed anger travelling across his face. 

“Right.” Harry looks less upset and more angry, which Ron supposes is something.

“Come on,” Ron says. “Aren’t you supposed to go meet Hagrid? Can I come with you?”

Harry blinks, then nods. 

Alright then. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hagrid’s hut is a little ways down from the Castle, nearer to the forbidden forest than any of the other non-castle buildings. There’s a pumpkin patch off to the side, and a well-trodden path into the dark woods. It’s large, because the man who lives inside it is large, and Ron’s legs dangle off a chair made for a 12-foot-tall man. 

Fang, Hagrid’s dog, firmly plants his head on Ron’s lap, and starts to drool. Ron quietly tries to surreptitiously push the large mean-looking but even-tempered dog’s head off of his legs, as Harry talks to Hagrid. 

“Snape hates me,” Harry says, moodily, swirling his tea around and staring at his cup. “He picked on me, ignored Hermione, and took away points for something I didn’t even do!”

“Pr’fesser Snape doesn’t  _ hate  _ y’, ‘Arry,” Hagrid says, as he pours Ron’s cup of tea. “Y’ just remind him of Lily, is all -” Hagrid pauses, then grimaces. “But, mind, don’t tell him I told you that. ‘S personal stuff.” Hagrid puts down the kettle and scratches at his jaw, through his beard. “Mos’ people don’ know they were friends, see. Think he likes it that way. Was safer during the war, with him being a spy an’ all.”

Harry stares at Hagrid, an equally disbelieving look on his face as what Ron think is on his own. “Snape knew Harry’s mum?” Ron says.

“Knew?” Hagrid chuckles. “They were in the same year at Hogwarts! Mind you, opposite houses, but that didn’t stop Lily, far as I remember.” Hagrid’s brows furrow, then, and he hesitates. “‘Course, childhood friendship can… well. It’s all in the past now. Whether they fell out or not doesn’t matter, and anyway I don’t right remember what ‘appened. Jus’ that one day they were thick as thieves an’ the next Lily and James were thicker.” He shook his head. “Never paid much attention, myself. Not until the war, y’ see.”

Harry frowns at the table - then sits up straight, and snatches the copy of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ up off the surface. “Hey!” He says, momentarily distracted, and possibly glad of it. “The break in was the day we were there!”

Hagrid’s brows furrow further, an uncomfortable expression clouding his features. “That it was,” He acknowledges. Harry bites his lip, eyebrows lowering in concentration as he squinted at the moving text detailing the attempted heist. 

“What was in the vault we-” Harry starts.

“Would you look at the time!” Hagrid blusters, checking a clock that isn’t there. “You kids best be off. I’ve got t’go check the forest, see if the thestrals are still there - and you’ll be havin’ homework to do,” and with that he bustles them off, out of the hut, rambling all the while. 

Harry is still clutching Hagrid’s copy of the Daily Prophet, and the spell caused by the whirlwind of motion is only broken when the tall man disappears into the treeline. 

“We could not confirm or deny this, as the Goblins are tight-lipped on the matter and could give no official statements on the ordeal outside of what is quoted in the main article, but it is considered truth by many that the contents of the vault could have indeed been the legendary and magnificent  _ Philosopher’s Stone,  _ the greatest creation of the best alchemist of all time. Of course, it could have been anything, from a bag of old galleons to a rare jewel of the highest carat ever known, and to reiterate, the Goblins could not confirm or deny whatever the vault may have housed within it’s high-security measures. But still, speculations abound, and we must remind everyone that any attempt to rob or otherwise gain illegal access to a vault is an incredibly dangerous undertaking, and could net you a very long sentence in Azkaban. Whoever tried this must have been very powerful and very desperate - so, from my personal perspective, I’m betting on it being the Stone.”

Harry looks up from the article, frowning. It’s not the front page - Ron can’t read upside-down, but he knows from his mum that it’s the ‘opinion’ page, since she reads that the most, and James Hathers writes very distinctively. The headlining Journalist for opinion pieces is Rita Skeeter, one of the moust (in)famous Reporters in all Great Britain; Ron’s glad the one who wrote this wasn’t her, even though his mum would trust it more if she had. 

“Philosopher’s stone, huh?” Harry says. 

Ron shrugs. There’s something niggling in his mind, like he’s read it somewhere a dozen times, but he can’t quite recall where that might’ve been. And Ron doesn’t read much outside of comics (he gets headaches, sometimes, and the words start swimming around on the page) so that’s even more aggravating than it might otherwise be. 

“I’ve heard of it,” Ron says. “I think. I can’t quite remember, but it rings a bell.”

Harry nods, slowly. He balls up the newspaper and shoves it into his bag. “Let’s get going,” He says. 

Harry is sat, staring at the fire. He’s dwarfed by the armchair - the chairs are big and squishy, and The Boy Who Lived is small and bony. Smaller than most of the other boys their age, in a way Ron’s not sure is healthy. 

“Chess?” Ron asks. Harry shrugs, and joins him on the low table before the fire, but he spends more time looking at the flickering flames than the pieces he should be commanding. 

“What’s wrong?” Ron asks. 

“I thought…” Harry sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe it does,” Ron says. He takes a guess. “It’s pretty weird, isn’t it? That Snape knew your mum.”

“ _ Very,”  _ Harry says, emphatically. “And - and I thought, I thought after coming here ‘people will stop hating me for my parents’, because Aunt Petunia  _ hates  _ my mum, and she called me Evans out of  _ spite,  _ I  _ know  _ she did, and Uncle Vernon always goes  _ on and on  _ about Dad being a drunken layabout and -”

Harry stops, quiets down; Ron’s glad the common room is basically empty, and everyone’s too engrossed in their own things to hear, if only because Harry wouldn’t like all this stuff being aired to literally everyone in the castle. 

“I know that I look like her, and I  _ like  _ that I look like her,” Harry says, “But it’s difficult sometimes. When it means people treat me differently, or hate me because of it.”

Ron gets it.

“It is,” Ron agrees, grasping at fraying threads for what to say next. 

“Imagine if we could swap,” Ron grins, amused. “You get the black hair, I get the red hair.”

Harry grins. “That’d be funny.” Harry says. “I think we’d look weird.”

Yeah. They probably would. 

“Knight to e-5,” Ron says. Harry’s queen is clobbered to death. 

“Oh, come on,” Harry faux-complains, smiling, and that’s better, Ron thinks. 

In brief, befriending Hermione goes like this:

“Philosopher’s stone?” She frowns, tilting her head. “No, I - hmm.” She gets a light in her eyes, a blazing sort of focus. “Alchemy, alchemy - I’ve got a book on Alchemy I picked up for some light reading, I could check that?” She hums again. “One second -” And she’s off, out of the great hall. After transfiguration, for which she nearly shows up late and is pale-faced for the whole duration because of this, she presents them with the biggest book for ‘light reading’ anyone could ever choose.

“That’s  _ light  _ to you?” Ron asks, half-disturbed, half-impressed. He couldn’t even  _ contemplate  _ on focusing on a book for that long. 

She looks at him flatly, before opening the contents. “The most famous Alchemist of all time is Nicholas Flamel, at least, according to this book,” Hermione says, “Even muggles know about him, we’ve got legends - I sent my parents a letter, though I don’t think they’ll have any more useful insight than this can give us.” She flips to the page, and slaps a finger onto the name. “Nicholas Flamel is the only known creator of the Philosopher’s Stone,” She says, triumphantly. “It is said to be able to turn anything into gold, and to create the elixir of life, a potion capable of extending the consumer’s lifespan indefinitely; it is, essentially, immortality.” She looks back up. “Though, it’s reliant on having a constant supply. If you run out, you  _ run out.” _

Harry looks over to Ron, at the same time Ron looks over at him. 

“Hagrid took it out of the vault at Gringott’s when we went there,” Harry explains. “The  _ same day  _ we went there, only an hour or so later, the vault was broken into by someone who wasn’t caught.”

“I read it,” Hermione nods. “So, what does this - “ She pauses, drops the volume of her voice, and leans closer, hushed-tone harsh and demanding. “ _ You think it really  _ **_was_ ** _ the Philosopher’s stone in the vault?”  _

Ron nods. Hermione’s eyes widen. 

“Oh,” She says. 

The friendship is then, thusly, solidified by this:

_ “Wingardium Leviosa!”  _ Ron shouts, and Hermione screams as the Troll smashes to the ground, Harry dropping off and rolling away at the last moment. 

(But you already know that.)

And, finally, it’s confirmed through this:

Ron grins as he watches Hermione set fire to Snape’s robes after knocking over Quirrel and causing a ruckus through that - and grins wider as Harry subsequently, while Snape is busy putting out the fire on his robe’s hem, recovers and catches the snitch. 

Because, really, after figuring out a mystery (maybe?), after battling a Troll, and after saving someone from a fall to their doom by  _ setting a teacher on fire,  _ how could you not be friends?

Harry returns to the common room ashen faced. 

“I think it’s Snape,” He says. 

(Looking different doesn’t change this.)

Harry walks through the flames into the last chamber, and the man standing there is not the one he expected. 

Quirrel talks, and Harry responds, tries to edge around - but fails, and he’s bound, and then the man is removing his turban and - 

“ _ Harry Potter,”  _ The voice says, as Quirrel turns around. The face on the back of his head is grotesque, and Harry can only assume it is one being, one person, as it could only ever have been. 

It is fitting, perhaps, that Harry meets Voldemort here, properly, in front of the mirror that let him finally meet his family. 

“ _ You remind me very much of your mother… she was brave too… she  _ **_tried_ ** _ to fight me… but she understood that she could not beat me… she demanded I spare your life and take her instead… I could not. I  _ **_would_ ** _ have spared her, but she  _ **_persisted_ ** _.  _ **_Bravery_ ** _ , Harry Potter, is a  _ **_foolish_ ** _ and  _ **_overrated_ ** _ trait. It is not bravery that has led to my survival, and it is not bravery that has led to yours.  _ **_Join me_ ** _ , Harry Potter, and we can  _ **_bring them back_ ** _ … their deaths were pointless and unnecessary, and I know the magic that could recover their souls…” _

“LIAR!” Harry shouts. 

He is forced to look in the mirror, forced to lie. He is found out, and he fights, and the last thing he remembers as he goes under, as the pain becomes unbearable and the blackness takes ahold - 

His mother, his father, his family, smiling at him from behind the mirror’s surface, blue-tinged and blurry and  _ proud.  _

Ron is worried. He woke up in the hospital to an empty room, a clear bedside except for one card and a box of chocolate, and near total silence. It hadn’t taken long for Madam Pomfrey to realise he was alright, to check him out, and for him to stumble back up into the common room before he realised that he hadn’t been given the chance to check if Harry was alright.

Harry, who’d been covered in burns. Harry, who’d nearly  _ died.  _ Harry, who’d fought Voldemort. Harry, who is Ron’s best friend, and currently lying unconscious in a hospital bed. 

Percy is there immediately, as he usually is, fussing in his bad-with-people way of his. The twins are worse, because they can never take anything seriously, except for when they can, but once they assess that he’s alright they start taking the mickey again, and Ron’s just not in the mood. Well, he’s never in the mood, but especially not now. Percy chases them away, and this leaves Ron alone in the middle of the common room, with all remaining eyes on him. 

“Ron!” Hermione says, loudly, and drags him over to the sofa. She babbles at him, words he can’t make out for how fast she’s saying them, but it slows down and peters out enough for him to get a word in. 

“I’m alright,” Ron says, “Harry - Madame Pomfrey kicked me out before I could ask.”

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Hermione says. 

It takes longer than tomorrow. 

After the game, after a week that feels like a year, Ron and Hermione finally gain access to their best friend. 

“How you feeling, mate?” Ron asks. 

Harry shrugs. He tells them everything; what Dumbledore had said, what You-Know-Who had said, what Quirrel had said, what had happened, how it had happened, and Ron can’t help thinking one thing, one, niggling thing, a thought he can’t let go of:

“Do you think he meant for this to happen?” Ron wonders. “Dumbledore, I mean. Do you think -”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. Hermione protests, but Ron looks at Harry, and they agree on this, so that’s more than enough for Ron. Hermione thinks too highly of their teachers, anyway. Even after setting one on fire. 

“You going to write to Ginny about this?” Harry asks.

“Of course I am,” Ron says, and then has to explain to Hermione about his little sister, who just hasn’t come up in conversation yet. That’s probably something he shouldn't let Ginny find out. He’d never hear the end of it. 

Going home feels weird. 

Hogwarts has gotten used to Ron being black-haired and Harry being a redhead, but back home it feels like a year ago, which feels like a lifetime ago on top of that. He’s around the twins more again, and they never let up in anything, so this is no exception; Ron’s back to hearing about Cedrella every day, back to hearing tired old jokes about his gran and ghosts and illegitimate children. The Orchard is still his escape, and it’s still Ginny’s; in missing her brothers, she’d forgotten how  _ aggravating  _ the twins can be. It happens, when you don’t see someone for nine months. Rose-tinted lenses, and all that. 

Ginny tosses him an apple, which he catches.

“So your year was eventful, then,” She says. “Got bit by a dragon,” Ron grins. Ginny giggles. “Charlie said,” She says. “In his letter.”

Charlie doesn’t write often, but he writes to Ginny the most. There’s a little charm on it so only the recipient can read it, which is good because otherwise Fred and George and Mum would be snooping through every single letter Charlie ever sends, for wildly different reasons. 

“Your best friend is  _ Harry Potter,”  _ Ginny says, after a pause. Ron tosses the apple to her, and she tosses it back. “ _ Harry. Potter.” _

“Yeah,” Ron says, ears burning under his hair. “He’s not like the books say.”

“No,” Ginny says. “He’s better.”

Ron scratches his chin. “You think?” Ron thinks, sure, But Ginny’s not even met him properly yet.

Ginny hesitates. “He’s a little like us, isn’t he?”

Ron hesitates. “Yeah,” Ron says. “I don’t think for the same reasons.”

Ginny frowns, vaguely confused. 

“Well,” She says, slowly. “He just… sounds a lot nicer than the books made him - because the books made him - I don’t know. Larger than life? And he’s just… in your letters. He’s just…”

“Harry,” Ron says. 

“Like you’re just Ron,” Ginny says. “And I’m just Ginny.”

Ron tosses her the apple, which she takes a bite out of. “Come on,” She says. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.” She grins. “Race you?” And she’s off. Ron grins, drops from the tree, and runs after her. 

Harry is just Harry, Ron thinks. He's not his mother, or his father; no matter his hair colour or what the books said. And Ron may look like Cedrella, may constantly have to deal with jokes about being more of a Black than a Weasley in looks if not temperament, but he is _Ron,_ and Ron is a Weasley, through and through, and honestly? 

Your looks don't define you. 

_Some people could do with learning that lesson,_ Ron thinks, as he pushes in pas the twins to grab what food he can from the table. 

_Most definitely._

(Ron is glad that he has.)  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> maybe cont maybe not either way fest fic = done yay (kinda sorry about the delay)


End file.
